


Five Times Bartons Were Assholes (and the Only Logical Solution)

by Nny



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 5 Times, Barton family disasters, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Homophobic Language, Kidnapping, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mention of Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-14
Packaged: 2018-10-26 10:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10784607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: “Barney Barton,” she says, “Clint’s brother. He’s - ”Bucky thinks back to solid frames and identical expressions, the half-scared stubborn automatic response to a yell. Thinks about the way Barney’d grabbed Clint’s chin and hauled his head around, and how Clint had still stepped forward a little, between Bucky and him.“Kind of an asshole,” he finishes. “Yeah, I figured.”





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gamzee_Makaraoni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gamzee_Makaraoni/gifts).



The team is coming together now in ways that Bucky hadn’t been expecting.

Steve has devised a draconian training schedule, so it’s not so much a surprise that when he flips back, boots a shocked looking lizard-thing in the face, Sam is there swooping in to drag it hissing into the sky. It’s no big thing when something comes up behind him, close enough that its breath stirs the hair at the nape of his neck, and a hollow thud and sharp cry tells him another of Barton’s arrows has found its target. It maybe took him a little longer than the others to settle into this – he’s used to working alone, he’s been trained to work alone – but it’s working and they’re working it, and Tony keeps putting the awards and press clippings and medals in Steve’s room, ‘cos he’s the only one of them too polite to throw ‘em away.

Bucky hadn’t expected the rest, though. Hasn’t quite figured out the realities of working on a team, hadn’t thought about banter on comms and uniform design and a life in which ‘team breakfast’ and ‘family meeting’ would be used without irony.

He’s cautiously decided to like it.

So he gamely follows along when the street’s empty of anything save the green ichor that’s gonna be a bitch to clean. He slings his arm around Steve’s neck and grins for the cameras, keeps his mouth closed and lets those with media training do the talking. And if he’s reassuring himself at the same time, doing a subtle headcount and checking for limping, well that’s no one’s business but his. Bruce is absent, ‘cos he and journalists don’t so much mix, and the Widow’s glaring at paramedics. And that would usually mean an injured Clint nearby, being patched up and told off and giving everyone around him that particular sheepish smile, but it’s Sam on the step cautiously stretching out his shoulder. Steve and Tony are giving wide plastic smiles and robotic soundbites, and Wanda and Vision are deep in intense conversation; Thor’s in Asgard this week, so that’s another off the list. Bucky scowls and scans the street, looking for blond hair and sticking plaster. Where the hell is Clint?

After a moment, he spots him, and automatically shoves himself away from the wall he’s leaning against, starts in his direction. It’s not often that Clint looks genuinely angry, so the scruffy guy he’s talking to has to be bad news.

The man’s the same kind of solid as Clint is, wearing a cheap suit and a truly ugly tie. He talks with his whole body, gesturing – no, _signing_ with his hands, his movements jerky and agitated. Clint makes a dismissive movement, turning away, and the guy grabs his chin and forces him to turn back.

“Hey,” Bucky yells, “ _hey_!” He speeds up, jogging over, and when the two men turn to look at him it gives him a start – they’ve got different features, sure, but the expressions on their faces are so goddamn similar. Whoever the guy is – whoever he is to Barton – he’s not willing to face a charging Winter Soldier, though; he turns on his heel and disappears into the alley behind him.

“Thanks,” Clint says when Bucky stops next to him, and the tone of his voice is kinda hard to read.

“Who the hell was that?” Bucky asks, and Clint just looks so goddamn tired for a second.

“No one,” he says, and rubs his eye with the hell of his hand. “Some asshole.”

*

Things become a little clearer a couple weeks later. It’s dark out and the lights in the tower make it feel safe and warm in a way nothing with this many windows should ever feel. Bruce is in the kitchen putting together something ridiculously complicated – mortar and pestle complicated, Bucky is duly impressed – and Steve’s reading something on a tablet, curled into the corner of the couch. The rest of them are around the table, cards in hand and Jokers wild. Bucky’s slouched in his chair with his feet up on the corner of Clint’s, ‘cos he knows what he likes and what he likes he ain’t hiding, even if so far it’s gone no further than the pink in Clint’s cheeks when he smiles at him that way. Natasha’s perfect posture is in the seat next to Clint’s, and she’s focused enough on her hand that she maybe hasn’t noticed the way Sam’s taken to staring. Then again, she maybe has.

Wanda and Vision are playing as a team, ‘cos he’s the only one of them fast enough to catch her cheating, and Tony’s planted next to them at the head of the table, chewing on the end of a cigar for the aesthetic and raking in the goddamn chips.

“Yeah, I’m out,” Clint says abruptly, shoving back his chair so hard it scrapes across the floor. Bucky’s caught off balance in the moment, and his knee slams into the table as he jerks to right himself.

“Fucker!”

“Can’t take losing?” Tony says, smug asshole grin framed by the smug asshole goatee.

“Tapped out,” Clint says. “Some of us are still living pay check to pay check, can’t afford the rent on the yacht.”

“I’d tell you how many things are wrong with that sentence,” Tony says, “but it’d turn into some kind of proletariat uprising.”

“Power to the people,” Steve calls from the couch, and Bruce solemnly raises a clenched fist.

“Look,” Tony’s spinning a chip across the knuckles of his hand, ‘cos he’s incapable of doing anything without turning it into a show, “if we’d played strip like I suggested –“

There’s a chorus of groans. Natasha catches Clint’s arm as he passes her.

“Everything okay?” She asks, as Sam loudly protests that no one here wants to see Tony naked, they’ve _talked_ about this.

“Fine,” Clint says, and when her fingers tighten a little, her jaw even more stubborn, he rolls his eyes. “Barney needed a loan.” She has nothing to say to that, apparently, and lets him go; he snags some elderly pizza from the refrigerator and heads towards the elevators.

“Who’s Barney?” Bucky asks idly, low enough for only Natasha to hear. She looks at him for a second, eyes narrowed, weighing up secrets and favors and costs. When she relents, it’s with a casual toss of her head.

“Barney Barton,” she says, “Clint’s brother. He’s - ”

Bucky thinks back to solid frames and identical expressions, the half-scared stubborn automatic response to a yell. Thinks about the way Barney’d grabbed Clint’s chin and hauled his head around, and how Clint had still stepped forward a little, between Bucky and him.

“Kind of an asshole,” he finishes. “Yeah, I figured.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You gonna get that?” Bucky asks, and he’s – Clint can tell he’s smiling, and there’s universes that turn on the curl of Bucky’s smile. So Clint does nothing to hold back his impatient sigh as he slides his phone from his pocket, a sigh that shapes itself into a pissed off swear when he sees the name.
> 
> “Who’s ‘asshole’?” Bucky asks, low and intimate in his ear, and Clint heaves himself a little more upright ‘cos that’s an association he does not want.

The phone call comes in the middle of the film. Clint can feel it buzzing against his leg, and there’s no describing the temptation to leave it, ignore it, let it slide through to voicemail so he doesn’t have to disturb this perfect moment right here.

Clint’s one of those people that need a two by four to the back of the head before he notices someone likes him, so it’s a pretty good thing that Bucky’s made no effort at hiding. It started out small – sly glances, sideways smiles – but it’s ended up here with Clint sprawled between Bucky’s legs and leaning back against his chest, Bucky’s fingers carding slowly through his hair. It’s still broadly within the borders of innocent, but even Clint can feel the approaching kiss on the horizon, like the electric taste of the air before a storm.

“You gonna get that?” Bucky asks, and he’s – Clint can tell he’s smiling, and there’s universes that turn on the curl of Bucky’s smile. So Clint does nothing to hold back his impatient sigh as he slides his phone from his pocket, a sigh that shapes itself into a pissed off swear when he sees the name.

“Who’s ‘asshole’?” Bucky asks, low and intimate in his ear, and Clint heaves himself a little more upright ‘cos that’s an association he does not want.

“Yeah,” he says into his phone, pissed and unfriendly.

“Clinton Barton?” An unfamiliar voice asks, and ice runs the length of Clint’s spine. He swings his legs around, places both feet flat on the floor, clenches his free hand into a fist.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, who’s asking?”

“This is Deputy Franks with the New York Sheriff’s Office. I’m calling on behalf of Barney Barton, who – “

“Fuck,” Clint says, even as he breathes out, even as his shoulders relax, “what’s he – “

“If you’ll let me finish, sir,” her voice is no nonsense, a little impatient.

“Sorry, ma’am.” He guesses he must sound cowed, ‘cos a skin-warm metal hand slides just under the back of his shirt, thumb brushing lightly against the small of his back. Clint wants desperately to lean back into it, but Barney’s his responsibility in a way that nothing else could be, and leaning on someone else just doesn’t feel deserved.

“Barney Barton was served with an eviction notice by myself and my partner at 11:45 this morning, sir, whereupon he became aggressive and had to be subdued. He has indicated that you would be willing to pay his bail, pending court proceedings which are likely to be later this month.”

“How the hell was he evicted?” Clint says. “I paid – “ He cuts himself off, bites his lip, ‘cos family business is family business, and keeping secrets was a lesson he learned young. He breathes out, slow and heavy. “How much is the bail?”

“Three thousand dollars, sir,” she says, and Clint swears low and creative and long.

“Okay,” he says, when it’s out of his system, when he’s apologised and called her ma’am again. “Okay, I’ll be there in a couple hours. A little less, if Tony has cash. Could you – “ he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could you do me a favor, though?”

“Favor?” she asks, cautious.

“Just call him an asshole for me, would you?”

“That,” she says, with the weight of conviction, “will not be a problem, sir.”

He hangs up and has to breathe slow and deep so he doesn’t throw his phone against the wall.

“You okay?” Bucky asks, and ridged metal is flat against his spine, supporting him, and Clint kind of hates everything that Barney is, right now.

“Yeah,” he says. “No. I gotta – “ a vague gesture towards the elevators, even as he ducks down to hunt for his sneakers. “Sorry.”

“Really?” Bucky asks, and the disappointment in his voice is some kind of ego trip, Clint’s not gonna lie. “Now?”

“He’s my brother,” Clint says, shrugging, helpless. “What else am I gonna do?”

His shoes are under the coffee table, and Clint pulls them on and rummages through discarded pizza mess for something to write on; Tony’s gonna need one hell of an IOU if Clint expects him to lend out one of his cars. When he stands, Bucky’s pulled on his own boots, laces trailing, and has his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep into his sweater pocket. His hair is all tousled and his eyes are bright in the dim light from the TV.

“So where’re we going?” he says.

“No,” Clint says, “Buck, seriously, you don’t – “

“Yeah, I do,” he says, low and certain.

It’d be great if Clint was smooth, but life’s just never been that kind. So it’s an awkward kind of two-step that gets him into Bucky’s radius, and gravity or magnetism or some other kind of irresistible force pulls him in the rest of the way. Bucky’s hands rest on Clint’s hips as Clint cups his face, as he takes the lead for once in his life and presses into the kind of kiss that movies are built around. Bucky’s lips are soft and a little open, and Clint takes full advantage, sliding his tongue into the slick heat of Bucky’s mouth. It’s a perfect kiss, playful and practiced, like Bucky knows exactly what steps to take and exactly where they’ll lead, so Clint pulls him in tighter and deepens the kiss, slower and hotter and more intent, and there’s something beautiful about the flush on Bucky’s face when he pulls away.

“Hell of a first date,” Clint says, and at least he’s not the only one breathless. “Wanna come bail my asshole brother out of jail?”

“Hey,” Bucky says. “It’s you. What else am I gonna do?” And this right here, Clint thinks, is the kind of moment where people fall in love.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s kind of kiss-dazed and stupid six weeks later, when he walks through his apartment door, but he doesn’t take more than a second to realise something’s off, to reach under the end table by the door and pull his gun. The shadowed figure on the couch doesn’t really react; cocks his head a little, maybe.
> 
> “What kind of welcome is that for your big brother?”

Clint’s kind of kiss-dazed and stupid six weeks later, when he walks through his apartment door, but he doesn’t take more than a second to realise something’s off, to reach under the end table by the door and pull his gun. The shadowed figure on the couch doesn’t really react; cocks his head a little, maybe.

“What kind of welcome is that for your big brother?”

“Fuck you, Barney,” Clint says. He puts the safety on, but the observant would notice he doesn’t make a move to put away the gun. “I don’t remember ever giving you a key.” If he wasn’t full up on diner food, on _swear to god, Clint, the best damn pie in Brooklyn_ , he’d be a little more pissed about the empty pizza box on the coffee table. Still manages to find some anger at the empty bottles that litter the floor.

“What’s a little B&E between family?”

The slur in Barney’s voice is the worst kind of familiar. Clint feels a little sick, a little small, a little like he wants to start running and maybe never stop.

“So what, a little family visit between B&Es?”

“Hey, fuck you,” Barney says, and he sounds genuinely offended. “I don’t do that shit anymore.”

“Sure,” Clint says, “I forgot. You’re in the big leagues now.”

“Hey, don’t be jealous,” Barney says, his voice easy and mocking, “I offered you an in – “

“Go fuck yourself,” Clint says, and Barney turns to face him, his eyes reflecting what little light there is.

“But I’m not the one who likes to get fucked,” he says.

The world stutters to a stop, and Clint is irrationally pissed at it. It shouldn’t be a goddamn revelation, it shouldn’t be a reaction this huge. He knows this about himself, he _has known_ this about himself, he’s accepted every fucking facet of what he wants to do with Bucky. What he has and does and will do with Bucky, and that’s right up to and including the weird fuzzy fantasies of the family and the picket fence. And yet somehow there’s still that terror, adrenaline, fight or flight, and it’s a struggle not to punch Barney in the goddamn face. 

“Yeah, well,” Clint says after a second, after he’s swallowed, “this ain’t exactly new. You remember Scottie Price?”

Barney tilts his head consideringly. “I remember dad trying to beat the fag outta you. Guess it didn’t work, huh?”

“Guess not.” Clint shrugs, lopsided, the shoulder that still aches sometimes when it rains.

“He ain’t exactly Scottie Price though,” Barney says, and takes a swig from the bottle that’s been dangling from his fingers, unregarded.

“What?”

“Your guy. Not like you could tell, looking at him.”

Clint goes cold. He walks carefully around the couch so he can face Barney from the front, the acid-white of streetlights leaving stripes of shadow across his face.

“I don’t want you looking at him,” he says, and Barney snorts out a laugh.

“Should maybe take a little more care, then,” he says. “The Winter Soldier holding hands over fucking milkshakes, d’you have any idea what people’d pay me for that?”

“You couldn’t,” Clint says, dangerous and low.

“You have no idea,” Barney says, “you think I don’t know people? I know people. I know who’s looking for him. One phone call and I could –“

“You couldn’t,” Clint says again, steel and ice, “because I swear to god I will tear your fucking arms off if you try.”

“So what, you’d pick a murderer over your own brother?” Barney has the gall to sound hurt.

“I’d pick pretty much anyone over the asshole who wants to sell out the man I love.” And hey, look at that. Apparently it’s easy as hell to get the words out when it’s not Bucky he’s saying them to.

Barney surges to his feet, his hands spreading wide in a kind of frustrated motion that Clint is intimately familiar with, one that usually signalled that someone was going to get punched. One he’s scared himself with in reflections, out of the corner of his eye.

“Your problem is you’ve got no loyalty,” Barney says, and Clint barks out a laugh, harsh in the dark stillness of his apartment.

“That is about the only problem I’ve never had, Barn.” He places his gun on the coffee table and slumps down into the couch, rubbing one hand over his face. “You’re an asshole,” he says, “you know that? And it wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t so fucking stupid with it.” He lets out a long breath. “How much is it gonna take to get you to go away?” he asks. _This time_ remains unsaid.

Barney opens his mouth to let all the idiot fall out, but before he can say anything there’s a shout from the hallway, a clatter, the thump of booted feet.

“Barney!” Clint yells, but any response is lost in the crash of the front door. Clint dives for the coffee table and comes up firing, taking two down before he gets back to his feet.

“Hey,” he hears, as he ducks and runs for the kitchen counter, “hey, this wasn’t the _deal_ ,” but he’s too busy getting behind cover to shoot Barney too. There’s still three guys mobile, and the volume of the gunfire’s fried his ears. He’s fairly certain one just punched Barney in the mouth, which puts him over by the TV, but the other two he has no clue, and a mistake here could get him killed.

Clint fumbles his phone out of his pocket and opens his messages.

 _Hey_ , Bucky’s sent, _so tonight was fun ;)_ and Clint wishes he didn’t have the kind of life where he had to respond with _my place 911_.

“We have your brother,” an unfamiliar voice says, and Clint can’t help laughing at the fucking absurdity that is his life.

“Sure,” he says, and spins the gun out from behind the counter, resigned. He raises his hands and gets slowly to his feet. “Loyalty’s _my_ problem.”

And hey, there’s the third guy. Third guy’s got a taser.


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where the fuck,” Bucky says with, he thinks, admirable calm, “is your brother?”

Bucky breaks the lock on the apartment building, races up flights of stairs, kicks past the drunkenly hanging door that’s supposed to keep Clint _safe_ and stumbles to a halt in the wreckage of the apartment.

“Clint?”

The coffee table’s in pieces, there’s bullet holes in the kitchen counter, and there’s a large dark stain to the left of the door that – that he can’t –

“ _Clint!”_

There’s a bitten off groan from behind the kitchen counter. The knife’s in his hand before he’s even consciously reacted, and he circles the kitchen counter ready to do murder. It’s an impulse only very barely leashed when he sees Barney’s sprawled form.

“One good reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now,” he says.

Barney groans and rolls over, hitching himself up on his elbows and looking a little green. There’s a knot on his forehead that is going to bruise all the colors of the rainbow and Bucky squats down so he can poke it, hard.

“ _Ow!”_

“Where the fuck,” Bucky says with, he thinks, admirable calm, “is your brother?”

“Look, the deal wasn’t to – they said they wanted _you_ ,” Barney says, and then backs up, arms and legs flailing a little as he scoots across the linoleum at the look on Bucky’s face. “I wasn’t gonna – I just did some _research_ ,” he says, clearly panicking, “I asked a few questions, and then all of a sudden there’s assholes with guns coming outta the woodwork and – and holyshitdon’tkillme -“ His voice reaches an impressively high register but Bucky’s barely listening, yanking his phone out of his pocket and dialling. (Clint’s always making fun of him ‘cos he’s still getting around to contacts.)

“Clint’s missing,” he bites out, the words vicious in his mouth. “Barney Barton may be dead.”

“May be?” Steve asks, worried.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Right,” Steve says. “Right, he’s the –“

“Asshole, yeah.”

Barney makes a small noise of protest and Bucky kicks him. _Hard_.

“Do we know who has Clint?” Steve asks, and Bucky swallows.

“I’ve got that covered with his brother. Was hoping you could tell me that Tony’s been doing something frankly unsettling with tracking technology again.” Bucky had taken his own arm apart with a fork the first time, but Tony wasn’t a man who took disagreement lying down.

“Five minutes,” Steve raps out, Captain America to the hilt. “I’ll call you.”

“Well,” Bucky says, as he sets his phone down on the coffee table with a decisive click. “I’ve got five minutes to find out what you know.” He smiles, and there’s a certain satisfaction in watching Barney’s eyes widen. “Doesn’t usually take me that long, but I’m sure we can fill the time.”

*

Bucky’s aware he’s no kind of angel, but when it comes to Clint he sometimes scares himself a little. He shouldn’t be disappointed in the fact that Barney’s perfectly willing to share the details about who’s snatched Clint, about his involvement, about exactly who he was planning on selling information on Bucky to. He shouldn’t be left with a sick twisting feeling in his gut that he has to forcibly bite down on, a feeling that demands blood.

He settles for hogtying and gagging Barney and leaving him on the hardwood floor that Clint has never once vacuumed, vindictively hoping for allergies. If this is what the Avengers have collectively reduced him to…

He dives for his phone when it rings.

“There’s a tracker in Clint’s hearing aids,” Steve says, and he sounds pissed but Bucky can’t feel anything but relief, rushing through his veins with every labored beat of his heart. Fuck. _Fuck._

“Where,” he snaps out.

*

Steve had, naturally, told him to wait. Steve had, naturally, wanted to assess the situation and make a plan and put on a uniform and make it official, and he’d said all of this to an abandoned phone cracked apart on an apartment floor.

The Soldier had been emotionless, cold, efficient, deadly; Bucky is all that except for the emotionless, and it turns out rage was a hell of a motivator. They haven’t taken Clint far, which is likely for the best – Bucky’s arsenal isn’t exactly inconspicuous and he’d like to get this done before the panicked civilians get the law in his way.

The neighbourhood is cracked concrete and crab grass, windows cracked and rent signs faded, and before he even hits the right building there are sirens cutting through the New York silence and the centre of his chest. He breaks into a run, unslinging the gun from across his back, then shudders to a halt as something explodes. Gouts of fire and smoke stain the sky and Bucky’s heart stops beating entirely for the second it takes to hear the crowing laughter.

“Yeah, fuck you too, bro!”

He’s moving before he can even see straight, pelting flat out across the wasteland between them, and there’s a shower of small stones when he skids to a stop, looking Clint up and down with terror-wide eyes and registering blood, bruises, battered bare feet. Registering the lopsided grin that’s skewing into a scowl as he watches.

“Who let you - ?” Clint taps his hearing aid, his voice _pissed_. “Who the hell let this fuckin’ asshole come after me? Who thought it was a good idea to – screw you, Steve, they were _looking for him_ , they – for the last time, I can rescue my own damn self!”

Bucky picks up his movement where he left off, crashing into Clint with a lack of care that’ll come back to bite him later, that Clint’ll take advantage of for weeks. He wraps himself tight around all of Clint he can reach, holds him tight and secure, buries his face in the side of his neck and listens to the vague tinny sound of Steve’s voice stuffed inside Clint’s ear. Clint idly pets him with scraped knuckled fingers, and Bucky bites down on a noise that he’d never willingly admit.

“You’re the asshole,” he says, petulant, and Clint laughs a little under his breath.

“Speaking of,” he says, and Bucky lets out something close to a growl.

“No, I didn’t kill your brother,” he says, and Clint whines.

“Man, can’t anything today go my way?” He takes a step and then grimaces, the sort that would’ve had other people screaming. Bucky hands him the gun and crouches a little so Clint can climb on his back, knowing by now not to use words so Clint doesn’t have the opportunity to refuse him, doesn’t get to make this infinitely harder than necessary. Because he’s Clint. And he’s an asshole. And Bucky –

“Hey Buck,” Clint says, low and directly into his ear, “love you.”

And yeah, Bucky thinks. Yeah, that.


	5. V

Barney had been long gone by the time they’d got back to Clint’s apartment, ‘cos serum or no serum Clint was packed with muscle and judging by Bucky’s pace, getting him up five flights of stairs took _work_. Clint had, naturally, refused anything in the way of medical treatment, and the both of them had watched the sun slowly put colour back into the walls rather than give in to sleep.

It’s offensive how routine it is. How after a little more than a day it’s like it never happened, save for the weirdly shaped stain by the door that no amount of scrubbing will shift. Clint insists on getting up as soon as Bucky’s stopped pinning him, shuffling his slow and sore way to the bathroom and then down the stairs, fumbling at the coffee maker with bandaged fingers and swearing softly under his breath.

Bucky intervenes when Clint reaches up for the filters then hisses in pain, his bruised ribs angrily reminding him of their existence.

“I can _do_ it,” Clint says, pissy and ungrateful, and Bucky throws the box of filters at his head. Pretty standard, really, ‘cos Clint’s a pain in the ass when he’s hurting, he knows this. He braces himself on the counter and counts to ten, then back, then again, and his tone is finally apologetic when he tells Bucky, “thanks.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” Bucky says.

His expression, his hunched shoulders, the way he refuses to make eye contact, it all should make him seem somehow small. But Bucky fills Clint’s apartment any time that he’s there, a frequently silent presence that still somehow invades all available space. When he’s happy the world seems somehow brighter, and when he’s pissed…

“Hey,” Clint says, ignoring the warning signs and going to lean against Bucky’s chest. Bucky wraps his arms around Clint without a moment’s hesitation, the pressure perfect against his various bruises, a cool metal hand finding its way under his shirt. “Bucky –“

The harsh ring of his phone breaks the gently easing silence.

“Hey, little brother,” Barney says, and Clint tucks his head under Bucky’s chin where it’s warm and safe and no one gets to see the expression on his face.

“Barney,” he says, even and reasonable, and Bucky tenses up like electricity’s been run through his spine, so fast he could almost pull something. Clint absently pats him on his side, ‘cos Barney’s his responsibility, always has been. Bucky doesn’t have to worry.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Barney says, and the sincerity in his voice, you’d almost think he hadn’t sold Clint out. Barney’s always been good at that, at neatly forgetting the latest offense and acting like they’re best friends so well that even Clint almost lets it fool him.

“No thanks to you,” Clint says, in case he needs the reminder.

“Hey, if anything you owe me,” Barney says, half-laughing, “you messed up a pretty sweet deal.”

“Barney,” Clint says, lets it out on a breath that’s been a long time coming, that’s lost all the heat it might once have had. “We’re done here. Don’t call again.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone, angry and indignant, and Clint takes a moment to smooth the shirt against Bucky’s chest, to pick at the peeling logo. He’s not gonna hang up, not this time, ‘cos that only leads to the guilty urge to apologise for it. He just waits, and breathes, and smiles a little when there’s the gentle buzz of an empty dial tone.

Clint hangs up and tosses his phone to the side, too tired of his shit to even be angry.  

 “Fuck, Clint,” Bucky says, quiet and angry in the way he gets when Clint’s been hurt. “Bartons are fucking assholes.”

“Yeah? Well fuck you too,” Clint says, smarting at being compared to his brother, wishing he knew better how to frame his defence.

“Maybe you’d be less of an asshole if –“ Bucky cuts himself off.

 “What?” Clint says. His heart thumps in his chest like he’s been running, like he needs to run, like something big and terrifying has just appeared on the horizon and it’s coming straight at him and any second now he’s gonna realise what it is. “…what?”

“I. Fuck,” Bucky says, articulate, and he runs a hand through his hair and then – and then he – he lowers himself down until he’s on one knee. He –

“What.” Clint says, faintly, and now it doesn’t feel like his heart’s beating at all.

“Maybe you’d be less of an asshole if you were a Barnes,” Bucky says, and there’s something scared in his expression now, something strung tight with hope.


End file.
